Don't Know My Own Strength
by Child of Mars
Summary: An old magician keeps a shabby leather ball in his store. His son discovers it and instead of tearing down the bridges between them, a new one is built. Rated K for slightly regretful angst.


_**Author's Note: Someday I will create fluff. Someday. Watch and be ready, world. Until then, I will classify this as a mutation, an angsty fluff-thing. Please enjoy!**_

_**Also, this really came out of nowhere except for the fact that Rumplestiltskin kept Bae's ball all those years. It touched my heart because he clings to so hard to the memories of all the loved ones he's lost...the ones who really, really loved him.**_

* * *

**Don't Know My Own Strength**

The sun was clear and warm, shining through a bright blue sky no longer tainted by the red blood glow of a far away battle. Songbirds chirped shrilly at each other, swooping from tree to tree, diving into the streets to flutter after scattered breadcrumbs or bright bits of cloth. A soft breeze rustled the leaves back and forth and the warm, earthy smell of farmlands drifted in from the south. The village looked much the same as any other, with long, wet dirt roads pocketed with filthy puddles, the little houses made out of sagging wooden planks and woven mats of thatch, the whispering grey smoke that rose from the ever-clanging blacksmith's shed. It was much like any other village. It was the people who'd changed.

They dressed better, yes. Garments of thick homespun brightly dyed and decorated with ribbons and tassels, little odds and ends picked out of a pile of sewing scraps, showing that they were rich enough to actually _have_ sewing scraps left over. Thick cloaks and robes, lovingly put together by careful hands with plenty of leisure time when once they'd had to work hard and constantly, making do with simple shawls or even smelly sheepskin pinned and knotted into place.

They ate better too. Carts full of vegetables picked straight from their own fields and meat and eggs collected straight from their own barns rumbled up and down the roads, led by cheerful, chubby farmers whose eyes were haunted by the memory of war but whose bodies showed the healthy benefits of peace. Whatever the village produced was no longer taken by force to the Duke's castle, where food that wasn't eaten, the spoiled and blemished bits, was sold back to the people at high prices. Now, they made the food for themselves and ate it too, in peace.

And, the greatest change of all…there were children. Children everywhere, laughing, running in the streets, children unafraid to play at war now that the wars were over, unafraid to show off their youthful strength and skill now that there was no danger of being drafted. They ran into travelers and apologized with brief smiles before darting back into the crowd. They tossed balls back and forth and snatched tiny tidbits of food from vendors who yelled after them more for show than anger, since it was so little lost and they were just so happy to see children again.

But the people had changed in more ways than that: now, a dark shadow vested them, an unquiet murmur, a wary look in their eyes, a lonely house at the edge of town that no one dared to pass by. There was fear.

Rumplestiltskin strode down the street, his rich red coat dragging through the mud, his hands spread out stiffly at his sides. He let his eyes, safely hidden behind dark curtains of matted hair, travel lazily over his neighbors as they ducked their heads or retreated inside their houses as he approached.

The vendor's smiles faltered and their voices dropped to a murmur as they suddenly became engrossed in organizing their wares. Mothers stopped chattering, started working with their heads down. People carrying burdens retreated all the way to the other side of the street and tried to walk quickly by. Children gasped openly and pelted into every exit they could find, like scattering quail.

He seemed not to notice. He muttered to himself, now holding his hands out and snapping them until a purple glow spread from his fingertips, now shaking the magic away, as if his hands were asleep and he was trying to get the blood to flow in them again.

His new powers were, to put it shortly, powerful. Magic built inside his hands every day, feeling like an itch in his fingers, aching just behind his forehead, begging to be released. Sometimes he wondered if it was the sheer power charging in his bones that had blackened his nails and destroyed his skin. His new, less than charming looks were a small price to pay, however, for the ability to do _anything_.

A crate fell over with a snap and several pounds of fruit rolled noisily over the ground. A hush fell over the crowd as the Dark One glanced towards the sound. A man stood there, petrified, bent over in the act of trying to catch the box just two seconds too late. A smile stretched itself over Rumplestiltskin's scaly face. He strode over and stared at the mess of apples beneath his feet. Then, very, very slowly, he looked up at the farmer.

Time stood still.

He saw a skinny man with a face that had once been cheerful. Now, a string of dents in his forehead pushed down his left eyebrow and made him seem perpetually and intensely angry. It was the mark of an Ogre's bite…how a man could get bitten like that and actually live was a miracle, a story that should be told by some fire before the children forgot about war and then the peace it protected.

But the man was also a fool. Rumplestiltskin knew him well…he'd charged alot for his fruit in the early days of the Ogre War before he was drafted. That was understandable; times were hard. But it was interesting just how expensive apples became when the town coward wanted just a small, yellowish one for his son.

The memory caused Rumplestiltskin's lip to curl into a snarl.

The man paled.

The Dark One lifted up his hand, pointing ominously at the fruit-seller and his stand. The villagers, what few were left in sight, held their breath. They stared, horrified and yet entranced at the same time, watching the impossible become possible, inevitable even. Rumplestiltskin's dull, gold-flecked eyes narrowed. "How much?"

The man's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. All his courage on the battlefield seemed to have fallen to the ground with his spoiled goods. "Fr…free?" He mumbled, glancing away as if he hoped this sign of submission would appease the Dark One.

It didn't.

"You're not a very good business man, are you?" An airy chuckle escaped the Spinster when he saw just how afraid his onetime enemy was. Cowering as he had, begging as he had, desperate as he had once been. Now he had power, and those words were but a painful memory, like a scab on his mind's eye. Suddenly, he clenched his hand into a fist, his teeth drawing back in a snarl as that memory reopened and all the hungry desire of his coward's soul flooded back into him, begging for protection and safety and control. He took one step forward.

"Papa?"

The eyes of the Dark One literally fluttered like a startled bird. Blinking, he quickly snapped his fingers. The apples transformed into eggs. Eggs all the colors of the rainbow.

Rumplestiltskin turned towards the voice; a warm, welcoming smile replacing the toothy grin as he eagerly strode towards his son. "Bae," he breathed, reaching for the chocolate haired boy, who halted just out of his reach, his short arms wrapped stubbornly around his leather ball. "I'm bored."

"Tsk," Rumple scolded busily, his hands loose and at ease now that he'd released some magic, "how can you be? Where's your friends?"

The apple-vendor sagged against the wall with relief. People began gingerly going about their business again. Some even started up some meek chatter. Death followed the Dark One less constantly when his son was at his side.

Bae shrugged. "Gone." He didn't want to tell his father that his friends had told Bae to stay away and never come back. The sorrow and hurt from that rejection was still raw in his eyes, but Rumplestiltskin didn't notice. He would have, once, but not anymore.

Rumplestiltskin paused, licking his lip with heavy thought. Then, gingerly, he took the ball from his son. "Very well then, I've got nothing going on this afternoon."

"But I thought you were going to practice your…your magic today," Bae protested.

Rumplestiltskin giggled ever so slightly. "Already have, really. Besides, the magic is for…" he held his hand out towards Bae, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Bae rolled his eyes, taking the scaly hand without any hesitation. "Me."

His father nodded and led him to a wider, less busy part of the road. He twirled the ball on one finger as Bae stepped away from him, moving into position to kick or catch.

The very day that news of Baelfire's birth came to Rumplestiltskin, he'd reconciled himself with the fact that he would never be able to kick a ball to him or climb a tree after him or race him home.

But now he could.

He didn't giggle this time. He laughed, laughed in a husky, throaty voice like the Spinster did the day he enlisted in the army to fight in the Ogre's Wars, like the Dark One did when he'd saved all the children from the frontlines and led them back home. Like the father now did, the father who could finally play a simple ball game with his son because his lame leg was healed.

He dropped it in the dirt. "You ready for this, boy?!"

Bae grinned and cupped his hands in his mouth although the two were well within hearing range of each other. "Ready for the shortest game ever, Papa?"

Rumplestiltskin laughed. "Don't get smart with me, young man!" he drew back his leg. Then he felt the magic tingle beneath his skin, flowing like blood towards his foot. He knew what it wanted to do, and he let it.

His boot connected with the ball and, with a thump, sent it soaring over Bae's head. The boy shrieked in excited surprise and raced after it, falling flat on his face in the mud with a heavy gasp of breath as he clutched the ball safely against his chest, coughing.

Almost instantly, Rumplestiltskin was beside him, scanning him for injuries. "You alright, Bae? I'm so sorry, son, I didn't mean it to go that far…I haven't played in so long, I didn't know my own strength."

Once Bae got his breath back, he laughed.

_He will never make his son giggle by kicking the ball farther than his little boy thinks he can ever kick it._

Rumplestiltskin's breath caught in his throat and he swallowed thickly. One hand brushed the mud off the ball while the other caught Bae's head and stroked it with his thumb. Bae stopped and stared at his father. "You ok, Papa?"

"Oh Bae," Rumplestiltskin breathed, slowly standing up with his son, leaning heavily on his bad knee, wanting it to hurt, _wanting_ to feel the strain in a limb he knew would never, _ever_ fail him again…"I'm fine."

* * *

Gold polished his brass ware nervously; counting every breath he took as he struggled to avoid looking up at his newest customer, who also happened to be his son.

They'd defeated Cora, they'd found Henry, they'd come home to Storybrooke and everyone was just waiting for the magic beans to finish growing so they could go back home. So life had very much gone back to normal.

Until Neal came into his shop without any warning, for apparently no other reason than to sit on one of the barrels and watch him.

"What can I do for you, son?"

"Nothing really."

"Very well then."

Silence.

It was still so painfully awkward between them. Small talk was an entirely extinct breed in their relationship. They could talk of the future, of the past, of danger and practically everyone else in the family but themselves. But when Gold tried to look in his brain for something innocent to say, something to bring a spark of life to the silence, it was as if all his suave, bitter, snarky, and silly things to say had been swept clean out.

Thankfully, Neal decided to try where his father had failed. He clasped his hands together and kicked his heels against the barrel's side, staring up at the roof from one side to the other and pretending to be interested. "So, this is where you work?"

Gold stared at him.

Neal shrugged. "Well, I didn't really get a good tour of the place since you were dying last time and we were left fighting women with fireballs and the Force."

The last comment caused the corner of Gold's mouth to turn up. Feeling confident enough to continue the conversation without doing something with his hands, he put the brassware back in its cabinet. "Well, I keep myself busy. Really, it's more of a hobby than a livelihood. At the most I serve two or three clients a day."

"I can see why," Neal's gaze had locked on a jar of undersea creatures, preserved in alcohol. He turned to Rumplestiltskin with the disapproving, scolding face of a mother who'd found the jar under her son's bed. "It's way more than a little creepy in here."

Gold loved his son to pieces, but he didn't like the look and he didn't like the implied criticism. He was almost…_hurt_ by the way his son spoke of this pawnshop, where Rumplestiltskin had stored his son's shawl, Belle's chipped cup, Charming's sword, and everything that was precious to anybody. He'd created it not only to be a safe position of power for Mr. Gold, but also a holding place for those cherished items, so they could trickle back to their respective owners after the Curse. Gold had nearly died here, had restored Belle's memories here and been willing to spend the last moments of his life with her here. He'd pricked his finger here, let the blood fall onto a magic globe and whispered his son's name into the close stillness of the pawnshop for the first time in almost a hundred years.

Before he knew it, his tone had turned brittle. "Yes, well, there's no need for you to actually _be_ here, then…" the anger faltered as he realized what he'd just said to his long lost son, "I mean…if you don't like the place you really, really don't have to stick around…you can go be with Henry and Emma. Your family. I believe they're at the park right now."

Neal's mouth tightened and he gave his father an exasperated glare. He knew very well what had just happened. He'd rebuked his dad, the old man didn't like it, and now he was trying to push Neal away and pull back inside his shell before one of them got hurt, before one of them said something they'd regret.

Which was a pretty reasonable fear. Besides, Neal wasn't feeling all that charitable today, wasn't even sure why he'd come here in the first place. Seemed his father could only show love at the gaping mouth of a giant portal or when he'd been stabbed fatally through the chest or while having his soul torn from his body in a freaky shadow world.

With a heavy exhalation, Neal stood up and stretched. "That's actually a pretty good idea."

He turned and went towards the door, his heavy, angry steps thumping on the wooden floor. Rumplestiltskin turned his back on him, determined not to show weakness and beg Neal to stay.

But just then, Neal caught sight of something in the shelf by the door. It was a ball, just like the ones he and his friends used to play with in the Enchanted Forest, ages and ages ago. Moved by the memory, he reached out and touched it, turning it around in his hand, feeling the thick, rough stitches that held the leather surface together.

To his sudden surprise, he saw a red star of cowhide, sewn into the surface by his father's clever hands to make it a special ball, _his_ ball.

His mouth had suddenly gone dry. His voice barely broke out of its husky tone as he put his hand on it. "What's this?" he asked.

A shuffle behind him. A pause. "Well, I do believe it's a ball." The sarcasm was the last dredges of bad feeling, a coping mechanism his father often used, so Neal wasn't affected.

"Yeah," he even smiled a little, amused by his father's wit and deciding to give some back, "could be right." He turned to look at him behind the counter. "Where'd you get it?"

Rumplestiltskin hadn't noticed his gaze. His hands went still and the slight tinkling and clattering of little objects fell silent. "I've entirely forgotten," the sarcasm died as his voice turned into a sad, airy whisper, "it was so long ago."

A heavy, soundless feeling of pain, memory, and immutable connection fell between them as Neal gave his father a good look, wondering why on earth he was lying like that. He knew his father was lying; he was a good enough liar himself to tell. Must run in the family.

"In fact," Rumplestiltskin continued suddenly, turning with a dismissive air to open another glass case that really didn't need to be opened, he just felt better doing it, "I didn't even know it was here. Most of my _regular_ customers are adults," he glanced sharply at Neal with a tiny bit of mischief that was so laden with sadness it was nearly dead, "or claim to be."

"Right," Neal replied softly, dragging his finger across the surface. Not a streak of old dirt of even a speck of dust. The ball was shiny from a pair of hands that had dragged lovingly over it almost every day. He swallowed.

Then, with a sweeping, powerful motion, he took up the ball and tossed it in the air, catching it as he pivoted to look at his father.

Rumplestiltskin's eyebrows rose and fell with the ball and his lips parted in alarm. "Bae! I sell _antiques_," he stressed sharply, "so kindly do not throw that ball in here! You'll break something!"

"I didn't throw it, I tossed it," Neal carelessly brushed off his objections, eager to get to the punch, "and I'm gonna take it to play with Henry."

"Fine, fine. As long as it's not in here!" Rumplestiltskin growled, relieved that he and Neal were parting on friendly terms, or at least friendly according to their own special, unique understanding of the word.

"And," Neal puffed up like a ringmaster revealing his greatest act or a child about to reveal his greatest secret as he poised in the open doorway, "I expect you to show up there in ten minutes."

For dramatic effect, he swung out and closed the door firmly as the bell tinkled, not staying to enjoy his father's open-mouthed dismay, no matter how much he wanted to.

* * *

Belle was very surprised when Rumplestiltskin burst into their living room, breathless, and immediately set about begging her to take a walk with him in the park. They'd both agreed that he'd be minding the shop that afternoon while she reorganized the Science Fiction section of the library. In fact, she had her indexing cards and library key ready next to her purse.

But Rumplestiltskin begged her, his brown eyes wide and vulnerable. Something had obviously happened, and Belle was always careful to show him he had her full support in anything that fostered love, kindness, or even just actual involvement with his fellow human beings.

So she grabbed her purse and exchanged her high-heeled shoes for a pair of trainers before accompanying her agitated husband out the door, letting him rush her along the pavement.

When they got there, however, he just clasped both hands to his cane and stood near the edge of the park, watching.

Out on the green field, she could see Henry and Neal kicking a brown, shabby looking ball back and forth. Still confused, she squeezed Rumplestiltskin's hand. He glanced at her, and then looked away. She doubted he'd even realized she was there.

All right, he wasn't talking. That was fine. She had a book. She sat on one of the wooden benches and began to read, distractedly.

Neal saw his father, waiting at the edge of the park like a rabbit in a hunter's blind, hiding and spying at the same time. He'd brought Belle, perhaps as a social shield, thinking her mere presence would protect him from his paternal descendants' boisterous energy.

He winked at Henry, whom he'd explained his plan to earlier while they were waiting for Rumplestiltskin to show up. Henry reacted perfectly. He bent over and picked up the ball before running towards his grandfather, leaping high as he threw the ball in a perfect, whistling arc. "Catch, Grandpa!" he cried, failing at keeping the laughter out of his voice. Neal grinned in anticipation.

After the initial panic that flashed across his face, Rumplestiltskin hesitated, fumbled, and then dropped his cane, somehow determined to catch the ball no matter what. His arms locked around the thing as it plummeted into his chest and smacked him in the face. Breathing hard, it took a few seconds to register that he'd actually caught it. He stared, first at it, and then back at Henry and Neal with a face that clearly said, _what? What is this earthly function? What does it mean? What should I say?_

Henry jumped up and down, arms spread wide invitingly. "Throw it at me, Grandpa!"

Neal was enjoying this way too much. He felt very pleased with himself and the way he'd tricked his father into becoming a part of his son's daily life, if only for a few minutes. He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, "Yeah, you remember how to throw a ball! You're not that old!"

The taunting voice, the cupped hands, the mischievous brown eyes as his adult son danced around like a very unadult person…it reminded Rumplestiltskin of another ball game, long ago.

"_Ready for the shortest game ever, Papa?"_

Rumplestiltskin laughed. "Don't get smart with me, young man!"

Laughter tickled his throat and the sudden thrill of being able to actually _do_ something sparkled in his eyes. He didn't have magic anymore, not really, but he still knew what to do. He picked up his cane.

Belle's book lay forgotten in her lap as she watched him.

The expressive face, so ugly in anger yet beautiful in joy, transformed into a smile as, with one sharp motion, he tossed the ball straight up above his head. He whipped his cane into position, holding it with both hands like a club, and then swung with all his might as the ball came down.

The heavy gold end crashed into the leathery surface with a sharp crack that sent the thing soaring, far over the grass, over their heads, almost into the trees behind them. Neal just followed it with his gaze, open mouthed, like a farmer watching a UFO.

Henry gasped with surprise, barely able to believe it as he stumbled rapidly through the grass and just managed to catch the thing as it pelted into his chest, forcing him to fall back onto his bum. Neal was still staring at the ball in his son's lap, open mouthed. Henry began to laugh.

Neal blinked. Then he chuckled sheepishly and lifted Henry up bodily with one hand.

Rumplestiltskin had reached them by this time and was swaggering as much as a man with a limp and a cane would be able to swagger. He smiled brilliantly at Neal, knowing Neal's so called 'plan' had just exceeded all his expectations. "Sorry, Bae," he sneered teasingly, "it's been so long, I just don't know my own strength."

Henry held the ball on his head and stomped around Rumplestiltskin, Indian-style. "Grandpa's on my team against you, Dad!"

"What?!" Neal gasped, unable to cope with the fluctuating changes in his family members' skills and loyalties.

Belle's shoulders shook suspiciously from behind her upside down book.

And then, Neal threw his hands in the air. "Two against one is never fair!"

Rumplestiltskin poked him in the chest with his finger. "I'm lame and Henry's just a boy. I'm sure we won't be too much competition for you."

Neal slapped the hand away. "Fine. But gimme that cane! No weapons allowed!" He grabbed at it.

Rumplestiltskin twisted away from him, holding it high in the air. But he was a short man and soon felt Neal's fingers tapping the wood frantically as his son tried to get a hold. Quickly, without thinking about it. he tossed the cane to Henry. "Quick, Henry, run!"

Henry did, making his way to Belle's bench as a safe-zone. To steady himself, Rumplestiltskin grabbed at Neal's shoulder. Neal was already leaning forward, however, so the two went down in an undignified heap on the grass, _oof_ing and laughing in a rather immature, hysterical manner.

Belle stood up and took the cane from Henry, winking at him. "Look at those idiots. Let's show them how to _really_ play ball."

Finis


End file.
